He was suddenly weeping. 'I can’t! I can’t'
I’d guessed this all along. Those books had covered everything. 'Could you have done it when you whipped me?' I asked shyly.
'I think so.'
'Simple, whip me again.' I handed him the cane and bent over.
He went on sobbing into his hands for a while. Then he began to notice how curved my bottom was. The sobbing dried up. I pushed a bit of my fur out behind. That has a very erotic effect. He looked at the cane he didn’t know he’d been holding.
He could certainly hit. I thought longingly of that argument and of how I might have prolonged it forever. I got two more. Real stingers. Immediately after they were over I laid down again and offered him my virtue. I was annoyed that my own thingummy was beginning to throb. I felt crinkly.
He threw his clothes away as though they were enemies. Don’t ever doubt that a man would sooner make a girl cry out with his prick than with his whip. If he prefers the whip it’s either because he can’t do it with his cock, or he wants to make it last forever. I suppose, if a man did it carefully he could whip a girl day after day after day after day.
He wasn’t bad naked. No Hercules, but passable in a lean sort of way. But his thingummy hadn’t managed to survive the disrobing. It was evidently very sensitive to immediate impressions. We both surveyed its flacidity with various degrees of chagrin. I simply got onto my feet again and bent over. At least now we’d be ahead the time it took Cedric to undress. These two were very painful. I expect he was annoyed.
He managed to get down between my legs before Napoleon lowered the flag again. The damn thing had no staying power at all. I realised that the sight of all my goodies at close range probably petrified the poor twit. I suggested a change of venue.
We were both a bit stodgy and conventional when it came to rummaging around again in old Rabin’s box. We picked a thumbscrew. Having done so we looked at each other with a sort of wild surprise.
'I’m afraid you’ll have to fasten me awfully tight,' I apologised.
This wasn’t too difficult. There was a wooden chair with stout arms. Rabin had supplied the straps. After five minutes of trial and error dear little Terry was sitting with her wrists strapped to the arms, just about as helpless and unable to twitch as I’d ever been.. Mark had never needed to fasten me like this. It was total. It was scary. I could see by the look on Cedric’s face that I looked very nice. But of course, we weren’t concerned with Cedric’s face.
I’m not mechanical. Neither was my would-be torturer. It took the two of us quite a long while to get the contraption fitted to one of my wrists and hands. When it was done I wished I was anywhere but where I was. I mean, after all those books I’d read. I would tell Cedric was having to call up all his own reserves. His little Willie had shrunk to almost nothing.
There always comes the final moment. No more excuses. No more words. We had begun to pant. For different reasons.
There was a sort of screw effect. I had to watch while Cedric tightened it. I suddenly realised that I was going to be watching the whole exercise. Little Terry was going to be tortured and she was going to have a front seat view of her own flesh and bone being torn up. I surged against those straps that were tight around my ankles, waist above my breasts, my elbows and wrists. I was fixed, but good.
Cedric kept turning the knob. I began to suspect that he had flubbed the operation, when suddenly the awful contraption began to take hold. I stiffened and looked at his intent face. I don’t know why I looked. Cedric wasn’t going to rescue me. Why should he? This was as much my idea as his.
'It is beginning to hurt,' I said, just to keep him informed.
'Good.' He spoke the word as though in confirmation. He was absorbed.
The next turn had me gasping. He paid no attention, but twisted again. I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I just had to. I screamed and screamed again. It was that sort of pain. A girl has no defences against it. It possessed you and you didn’t know its limits. The screams were half pain and half fear. Now I could understand why – in the past – the better torturers had always used thumbscrews.
The damn chair and the straps were part of it. I could not move enough to matter. I fought those straps, but did not budge. My master thoughtfully tightened one or two of them while I was still screaming. He had discovered the ideal instrument. It would go on and on hurting me even when he was doing something else. He could even leave the room and the horrible thing would continue to bite and wrack and burn so that I could cry and cry and plead and plead when there was no one to listen. If there had been any question of my saying ‘yes’ to something, I’m sure I would have said it.
Cedric – thoughtfully – gave it one more turn.
A girl can’t really describe an experience like this. At least I can’t. When you think of it there is not a large vocabulary of words to explain pain. You have heard them all. Then there are things that I blurted out, mostly pleading. You know: ‘oh please stop… I’ll do anything…’ I exhausted my repertoire of those too. It was sort of an explosion of everything at once. Cedric listened gravely. And watched, with glowing eyes.
I felt the impotence of slavery. A slave cannot bargain. She has nothing to offer. Her master owns all of her already. She cannot threaten, she has no weapon to threaten with. The stock situations in which a girl is tortured are on the premise that something is required of her besides screams: she can stop what is being done to her by saying yes. She may not say it, but the choice is there. With a slave girl it is definitely not. It will stop only when someone else decides they are tired with that particular bit of fun. The metal ugliness was on my hand. But it might as well have been all of me. The pain was. That’s all little Terry had become: one huge flaming agony. A strange and awful thing that twisted and shrank me inside and caused the noise I made to be without words or form, they were just a continuous ululation of suffering. You see, that darn thing on my hand wasn’t like a whip. No cut followed by variations, perhaps a pause if you are lucky. This never stopped, never relented. You knew it would not stop unless some mechanical motions were made first.
My poor hand! There it was sticking out from the strap that cinched my wrist light, tight down against the wood and on it, clutching it like some dread beetle, was this strangely shaped contraption spawned from a nightmare centuries old. Sorry if I sound a bit like a hyperbole. But I’m trying to tell you. I was watching. I saw it all.. I saw my hand and the thing on it. But I could not move it. The strap was such a lovely neat circle. It held my wrist so beautifully. Anything I tried to do with my fingers hurt too much to be worthwhile.
To make the whole thing worse was the knowledge that there was nothing to stop Cedric turning the screw again. I knew, of course, that if he did I would die, my hand would never be any use again. I hadn’t any hope of fainting. I’ve never fainted in my life. I think that fainting bit went out with corsets and constipation. I watched his face, in between throwing my head all over the place. I was the only thing I could move. Cedric was very happy. He’d got hold of a bit of me that had never been used, a virgin hand. It was an exploration for both of us. He reached once more towards the knob.
'Stop!!!'
Involuntarily I barked that single word as though I had authority. It just popped out. Cedric paused, startled. Then he saw me. I mean he really saw me. Since he’d strapped me in the chair and we’d half laughingly puzzled out the thumbscrew I’d become, for him, just a delightful curved and tastefully strapped feminine something that provided the most stimulating erotic sounds and motions. Now he blinked and beheld poor little Terry Esmond’s face wet with tears and drawn and lined in agony. I’m sure my face must have looked awful, even if the rest of me didn’t. It made him pause and think.
'Pretty awful, eh?'
Just pleasantly conversational. I could have killed him. I just increased the tempo of inarticulate noises. He perked up. 'I’m not gonna take it off, y’know.' He was feeling his oats.
I sort of zeroed in with focus on his eyes. 'Oh Cedric. I’m only girl. I’m not made or iron…' I trailed it off in agony and tossed my head. I wasn’t acting. It was real. I couldn’t be flip about it. So it must have been pretty bad.
CHAPTER 5
